


The Stars Beyond the Water

by obirain



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, The Cl
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28501164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obirain/pseuds/obirain
Summary: Your former Master, Obi-Wan Kenobi, returns to the Temple in Mandalorian armor and a weight on his shoulders you’ve never sensed before. Set between TCW 5.16 and 5.17.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader, Obi-Wan Kenobi/You
Kudos: 13





	The Stars Beyond the Water

“Master, it’s dying.”

You look up at your younglings. Kaida stares wide-eyed at her nursery pot: the leaves hang limply and the tiny, fragile petals have wrinkled at the edges. Your heart clenches at the sight. You’re kneading and smoothing the soil in the rasied beds with green-stained fingers. It’s cooler in the dirt, shielded from the humid air, but you wipe your hands on your apron and kneel anyway.

“It’s not dying; it’s just unhappy. Starflowers prefer partial shade.” You pull the pot a few feet forward with the Force, where the light is gentler. It springs back to life; the flowers flush with their former, brilliant blue. All twelve younglings gasp and fidget. They’ve abandoned their meditation, too curious to keep their eyes closed. Let them, you think fondly. If only for a moment. You cross your legs and let your fingers dance across your thighs; they itch to dig back in the dirt.

“It’s homesick for Alderaan. But even here the soil nourishes it and the sun sustains it. So will the Force sustain and guide you wherever you are, wherever you go.” You reach out to them in the Force with little more than a whisper, caressing the seedlings they each hold. The leaves glow a brighter green when you pull away.

“Many of you will become Padawans soon. Then you’ll be trained not just as Jedi and peacekeepers, but as soldiers and commanders—until the war ends, at least. But your true strength lies always in your connection to the Force. Anyone can swing a lightsaber. To feel the living Force within you and the cosmic Force around you, though—that is the great honor of a Jedi. Close your eyes, then. Feel the water in the roots and the light on the leaves. Concentrate.”

You withdraw to the tall, open window. You should be meditating with them, actually, but you love this time of day too much to close your eyes. The Coruscanti sun is beginning to approach the horizon. It’s huge and golden and makes the late afternoon traffic look like hundreds of ripples on a rainbow river, catching the light and carrying it to the sea. You let the warmth sink into your skin and the gentle hum of the younglings’ thoughts lull your spirit. But then an unfamiliar ship touches down on the landing pad, and you feel it.

It’s haunted you for several days—plenty of time for it to settle in the air, in your lungs, in your bones. It’s familiar, too; it brings you back to the days you spent confined to bed, unable to sit up beneath the weight. But this feels… outside of you, somehow. A static in the air from a storm far away. Each day it draws closer and the clouds grow darker with winds that would surely uproot every tree in your garden.

But you’ve ignored it. You had to. You’re a healer and a teacher, one of the few granted a permanent residence at the Temple during this Maker-forsaken war. Your younglings need you. So you will a smile to your face and a peaceful melody to your Force signature despite the constant ache in your chest.

Seeing the ship below you, though, feels like ripping off a bandage. The ache focuses into an acute throbbing as a figure you almost don’t recognize emerges.

Almost.

Not even the Mandalorian armor can fool you, not when you feel his presence so profoundly. He might as well be inches from you. The stately vermillion contrasts beautifully with his coppery hair (and probably his eyes, too, although you’re too high up to see them). Your heart quickens without your consent; he’s only grown more handsome to you over the years even as the burdens on his shoulders multiplied.

But this? This smothering, overwhelming darkness? You’ve never sensed this in him before.

You breathe deeply and call to him. No words, no urgency. Just a soft alto hum, a feather-light touch to test the waters. Obi-Wan stops in his tracks; you know he senses you. But then he trudges forward again. Your energy hits a wall of solid durasteel before it can reach him.

The impact sends shock waves through the Force, knocking the air from your lungs. You press a wordless, anxious question; he reinforces the barrier. Once he passes the Four Masters and enters the Temple, you can barely sense him at all. Now more than ever he feels parsecs away. 

Helplessness and hurt mingle with the chill in your heart and swirl into the color of ash. Obi-Wan’s shields have eased the weight—for now. His rejection, though, cuts you in two. You clutch the wall as a shudder wracks your frame. The sun shines directly across from you, but you feel so cold. So you shut the window and retreat. Nothing to do now but shove your hands back into the dirt.

* * *

With his barrier up, Obi-Wan’s become a ghost. No, you think. A ghost would be easier to find, easier to sense. But now both are beyond your grasp.

Not for your lack of trying. You look for him in all the refectories, not noticing the spiceless food in front of you. You haunt the library and the meditation gardens; you even snoop around the High Council Chamber. Nothing, nothing. You shouldn’t speak to him; he’s made that abundantly clear. But just to see him—even from a distance—would ease the anxiety that mounts with each empty room. Perhaps you just imagined him earlier? No. The thought is as absurd as it is dreadful. But the hours pass, still with no sign of him. He simply, deeply doesn’t want to be found. 

The next morning dawns cold. You couldn’t be more exhausted if you’d been hit by a freighter head-on; your head hurts and your bones ache. You hesitate, clenching and unclenching your fists, before searching the Force once more. Your energy doesn’t hit a barrier this time—it simply has nowhere to go. Obi-Wan isn’t hiding. He’s gone. 

Tears fill your eyes against your will, but you don’t let them fall.

On your lunch break you confirm it: Obi-Wan’s already off-world, has been since before dawn. Anger flickers through you. Of course he would do that. No one but Obi-Wan Kenobi could be so foolhardy, so stupidly strict with himself as to return to business-as-usual after… whatever had just transpired. He’d splash his face with cold water, offer Cody a tight smile, and declare himself good as new, even as the cloud still hangs over your head and will for who knows how long.

And you don’t forget the deliberation with which he held you at bay; it still smarts like a papercut days later. Some deep-seated sadness has kept the wound open; perhaps something more than sadness, too. 

Whatever it is, it’s made you a very effective weeder.

The crabgrass that plagues the open-air gardens doesn’t stand a chance against your calloused, soil-worn fingers. You rip it up by the root, relishing the sound and smell of the shifting earth. It’s meditative, addictive in the best way; you’ve cleared almost the whole space in just over a week. With each day that passes and each weed you tear out, your heart begins to warm itself. It’s only a distraction, you know, but it’s something.

And then you feel it. 

Exhilaration courses through your veins with a jolt that makes you grab the wooden siding for support. You know it’s him. And there’s no class of younglings to keep you from him, to… to what? Hold him? Interrogate him? Smack him upside the head with your datapad? Tempting as that last option is, it’ll have to wait. 

You dump today’s spoils into a trash receptacle, gather up your long, dark green robes, and rush out of the garden, nearly stumbling into several older, disgruntled Masters in your wake. Some of them grumble; others chuckle. You’re hardly the vision of an accomplished Jedi Knight. If Obi-Wan could see you right now he’d laugh, maybe say something mildly insulting. 

Maker, you missed that. You’d been deprived of it for almost five years after being Knighted—constantly on the move, maintaining diplomatic relations between the Order and some of the more restless Republic systems, with next to no contact with your former Master.

And then came the urgent summons, along with the news: Dooku’s betrayal, the pointless slaughter of dozens of Jedi on Geonosis—your mentors and your friends—and a fully fledged war with the Separatists that would surely claim dozens more. And then the news stopped. You returned to Coruscant with nothing but the deep yet inarticulate certainty that Obi-Wan was alive, somehow. It grounded you in your meditation, protected you from the coldness of hyperspace in that empty ship.

But to finally sense his presence at the Temple, to see him in the corridors, real, physical, alive, more tired than you’d last seen him but graced with his usual kind smile, had been too much for your lonely soul to bear. You ran to him, and you didn’t care who saw. The feeling of his arms around you and his chin resting on the crown of your head, the sound of his soft laughter reverberating through your chest, healed the hole in your heart. If only for a moment. 

You’re running again today, but you don’t reach him. You stop at the top of the stairs, just behind one of the Four Masters. Obi-Wan stands with Anakin and Cody just a few feet in front of their ship, all looking a little worse for wear. If any of them looked up, they’d see you easily. Your energy, though, remains decidedly withdrawn. 

Obi-Wan straightens and looks around mid-sentence. His eyes lock with yours. It sends a thrill through you—of relief or terror or suspense, you can’t tell. He lays a hand on Anakin’s shoulder, nods to each of them, and starts up the many steps. With each passing second your anticipation builds until he’s just a few feet away. Finally you can see his face. Your whole being deflates; your breath hitches.

There are new scratches on his pauldrons and new scorch marks on his robes. His unusually unruly hair hands in his face and shadows his eyes; they’re ringed with dark circles that give them a distinctly greyish hue. The note of agony resounding through the Force isn’t quite as high-pitched as last week, thank the Maker, but the sight of him more than makes up for it. This was a bad idea.

Exhaustion settles over him like ash as he comes to a stop. His fingers twitch toward you—was he going to reach for your hand?—but he jerks them away before you can even think to reach back. They settle instead on the hilt of his saber.

“Good morning, my dear.” He smiles, but he’s so visibly tired that it strikes you more like a grimace. “No younglings today?”

“No.” A wave of dread washes over you when you realize you have no plan. You’ve waited days for this conversation—nine since you last saw him, and many more since you last spoke. And now he’s just feet away and you have nothing: no words, no direction. Just the overwhelming desire to ease the burden, somehow—and just enough wits about you to quiet your thoughts. 

But you press on. You have to. “I meant to talk to you last week. You seemed…” Tormented? Devastated? “… distraught.”

He glances at his hand. He’s still smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Everything was alright, young one, although I appreciate the concern.”

You blink. Obi-Wan’s not one for such audacious lies, yet here you are. “Of course, Master.”

The words have already left your mouth when you realize how bitter they sound, and you regret them immediately. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean—”

He holds up a hand, sparing you another tired smile you don’t deserve. “It’s quite alright. And you’re right: last week was… taxing. I apologize if my thoughts were loud.”

No, no, no. This isn’t right. You were apologizing to him, not the other way around. Your cheeks burn and you feel powerless to stop them, preoccupied as you are with controlling your signature. The melody you work so hard to maintain resounds from halfway across the galaxy. It’s so apart from you, warbling with the force of your emotions. They ring in your ears, tempting you to wipe the streak of soot off his cheekbone, to press a kiss to his bruised knuckles. Absurd notions, of course. Impossible, forbidden. 

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” you say quietly. For the moment you can’t stand to look him in the eye. You only wring your hands; they feel unusually cold. “It was presumptuous of me to ask.”

“No, not at all.” He watches you with an unreadable expression; for a moment you think he’s about to continue. But his expression shifts and he changes the subject. “It’s getting late. Anakin and I must report to the Council. It’s—it’s good to see you.” 

There’s something else there, you think. A change in his voice, in his posture, a dip in his energy, maybe. You can’t put your finger on it. But somehow it strikes you as the only truly honest thing he’s said so far, and it’s far from comforting.

You’re still trying to dissect it when he starts to walk away. But he pauses, watches you carefully, and surprises you. 

He reaches out, clasps one hand over yours, and raises the other towards your face. His fingers ghost over your hair and pull out a bit of dry crabgrass. It flutters noiselessly to the ground.

Obi-Wan gently squeezes your hands. They stop their anxious fidgeting under his warm, broad palm. Perhaps you’re deluding yourself, but you swear his fingertips linger just a second too long on your wrist. The moment passes and the warmth dissipates as he pulls away and enters the Temple. You bite the inside of your cheek hard and look over your shoulder just in time to see him shake his head. 

Maker be damned.

The old Masters are still loitering in the gardens when you slink back; you can feel their eyes on you. You’re sure you look quite the mess. It certainly can’t compare to the mess you feel inside. The wooden flower bed draped over with ornamental grass looks so inviting and your heart is so heavy. It can’t hurt to sit here for a bit and overthink your life. 

There was nothing in that. Just a friendly, professional gesture between colleagues. Between a former Master and former apprentice. Holding hands as friends do. But the warmth, brief as it was, stubbornly haunts your fingertips. A shiver runs down your spine and your face reddens all over again. You squeeze your temples as if the pressure will calm the storm inside. Thinking of him like this is wrong in any circumstance—you remind yourself of that every day and have for years—but here? Now? It feels… well, still wrong, but worse than usual. Much worse.

You resume ripping up crabgrass; what else can you do? But you’re much too forceful. The weeds end up snapping off at the stem rather than yielding at the root. You huff and let them fall to the ground. Stars, you feel so lost. So placeless.

The grass surrounding you sways gently without any breeze. It’s like having a friend on either side; it lulls your mind into a false sense of tranquility. You run your fingers down the blades. They’re wispy and soft beyond belief; they remind you of your travelling days before your assignment here in this metal maze of a planet. Travelling as a Knight; travelling with your Master… 

And suddenly the hazy suggestion of an idea blooms into full color in your chest. You jump to your feet. Maybe there’s something you can do.

* * *

Five levels down from the surface is your favorite market. It’s small, frequented mostly by Republic refugees. The air is thicker and smokier here and more trash litters the streets, but you can still see the sun. Though eclipsed by the upper levels, it shines warm through your hood. 

You’ve brought just enough credits for an air taxi to and from the market, as well as for the ingredients you couldn’t find in the Temple. You were lucky this time: you’d found almost everything within half an hour, including plenty of red reeds. No one thought twice of someone in a gardening apron pruning off a basket’s worth of it; for the moment, at least, you felt a little invincible. 

All that’s left are the Qui’lar eggs and powdered jjuda. You figure out pretty quickly that the eggs are out of the question. Qui’la aren’t native to any planet within the Core; one egg little larger than your thumb costs as many credits as you have on you. Hawk-bat eggs from the Temple kitchens will have to do.

The jjuda, though, is a crowd favorite; the whole place reeks of the stuff. It settles into your clothes and hair immediately, not that you mind. Sweet and savory, so strong it your eyes water, but it reminds you of home. Not your home, but something like it. 

No, not home. His home.

It hits you vividly: suddenly you’re a Padawan again, sitting in front of the old Kenobi family home with your Master. A quiet mission had brought you two to Stewjon in the last few months of your training, Obi-wan’s first time back since childhood and your first time altogether. It was a peaceful planet and a peaceful household, now run by Obi-Wan’s older brother and sister-in-law. Owen and Jida, their names were, with a three year old named Odan who liked to follow you around and steal your lightsaber (he wasn’t very successful, but at least he was determined). The last night, Jida prepared a batch of jjobora, Stewjoni red reed soup. It was Obi-Wan’s old favorite, apparently, and—Maker—it was good.

Better, though, was the view. The evening had cooled off enough for you to eat outside, cross-legged in the tall, green grass. The house stood just a few yards away from a little river; its bubbling was sweeter than music as you settled down with your food.

On the opposite bank, Owen chased his son through the grass. Or maybe it was the other way around; you couldn’t tell. Their game was a mess of laughter, playful threats, and trampled reeds. You giggled at their antics, but suddenly fell silent. It was frightening, really, how much Owen resembled his brother, and how Odan resembled his father—all with honeyish hair framing the brightest blue eyes you’d ever seen. You bit the inside of your cheek and wondered if it hit Obi-Wan like it hit you. 

Odan’s shrieks snapped you out of your reverie. He delighted in running up and down the slippery bank but hadn’t yet mastered his balance. and it wasn’t long before he fell on his face in the mud. You and Obi-Wan both jerked forward on instinct—as if you could have reached him before his own father—but he simply sat up and laughed. You relaxed again and tried to focus on your soup, but couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face.

“That was you once,” you pointed.

Obi-Wan chuckled beside you as Odan scooped up a handful of mud and threw it at his father. “The golden days, of course.” There was a miniscule shift in his energy towards something more grounded. “We used to play here, he and I… Just about this very spot, too…”

“We’re not desecrating anything, are we?”

“I’m not.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You desecrated it the moment you sat down and spilled half your meal.”

You reddened. “It was a few drops, Master.”

“A few drops that will mar the landscape forever, I’m sure.”

You flung the contents of your spoon at him—not close enough to hit him, of course, but only enough to say you could ruin his robes if you wanted to.

“My, my, you’re aggressive today.” He flinched away from you, but the lilt in his voice and the spark in his eyes betrayed his amusement. “And here I thought the best food in the galaxy might appease you.”

You hummed but said nothing, content for the moment to observe and admire. The river flowed towards the setting sun. The green of the grass and the blue of the cloudless sky joined and yielded to gentle gold while the water bloomed carnation pink. The first stars twinkled faintly down from the East. Soon the whole sky would be brimming with them, but something about these little ones vying for visibility held a special place in your heart. 

Jida shouted from the house: it was almost Odan’s bedtime. Owen scooped the boy up by the waist, tossed him in the air, and crossed the narrow bridge back home. As their voices faded behind you, the water and evening insects grew loud in your ears. Too loud.

“Something troubling you, Padawan?”

You glanced at him, and quickly away. “Well… ‘trouble’ is a strong word. I’m just thinking.”

“Thinking?”

Your eyes glazed over the water as you paused. The littler stars you loved shone glassy on its surface. “I’m… not sure how I would hold up, Master, were our positions reversed,” you said cautiously. 

“Oh? Do tell.”

His voice was light, but you couldn’t match the tone. You bit your lip as if that would trap the words in. “To spend so many years away from home, to return and… and…” You swallowed hard. “… find everything so different. Irreparably so.”

Obi-Wan was quiet; for a moment you worried you’d overstepped. “Such is the life of a Jedi,” he said finally. “Letting go of houses to find a home with the Force.”

“It’s not just a house, though, is it?” You lay on your back and stare into the bottomless sky. “It’s… Stars, it’s a whole life we’ll never know; we can’t. It’s one thing to choose to let go and submit to the Force, but as it is it just seems like… becoming a stranger to yourself, until life itself is unrecognizable.” 

Tears welled in your eyes; you shut them tight and looked away. You were nearly a Knight, for Maker’s sake. You just didn’t feel like one.

The grass rustled as Obi-Wan lay next to you. “What’s this really about, young one?” He asked quietly.

Almost a minute passed. “I’m to take the Trials soon.”

“Yes. And?”

“I’m not ready,” you whispered. “I’ll be Knighted, I’ll go who knows where, doing who knows what. I’ll come back home, and…” And find that we’re separated by a gulf. That I don’t know you anymore. That you don’t know me. That I’ll spend my whole life trying to recreate this moment, to find an us again, only to surrender to the passing of time and the reality that, where once was one, there are now two—two irreparably sundered halves of a whole. “…and find it’s not home anymore.”

You clenched your jaw to stop its trembling. You’d learned by now to keep your Master out of your head (you’d had to, given your more… un-Jedi-like feelings for him), but your thoughts were probably etched all over your face, anyway. You could only will him—quite uselessly—not to look at you.

Seconds dragged on into minutes. Still Obi-Wan said nothing. His shields were up as they almost always were. But something else rang quiet in his signature, foreign yet familiar, maybe comforting, as his energy surrounded you. Eventually you grew too curious; you turned to face him. 

He was so fixated on the stars above that he seemed not to notice you at all. Only the breeze blowing across his robes gave the illusion of movement. Finally he took a deep, shuddering breath. “I… understand your predicament, dear one.” He spoke slowly, choosing his words with particular care. “Change is a part of life, and so is placelessness. But you needn’t fear it. The Force will sustain you and guide you, no matter where it takes you.”

“Of course, Master.”

You went to look away again, but suddenly warmth brushed against your hand as it rested on the chill grass. Obi-Wan covered your hand with his and turned to you. His eyes glowed beneath the stars. 

“That said, you will always have a home with… within the Order. I promise.”

The sun had died away and the whole world blazed with light; the first stars of the evening gleamed brighter than all the rest. Obi-Wan’s hand drifted from yours but lay not too far off. You knew the moment was coming—coming soon—when he would collect your empty bowls and suggest you turn in for the night. Then you’d fly back to Coruscant, receive your next assignment, and be off again, just another mark on the countdown to your inevitable separation. Every minute you lay here with him was borrowed time.

But it’s something, you thought as you closed your eyes. Your joined energies enveloped you like a blanket as the water hummed, warming you from the inside out. So for now you let yourself feel the warmth, and the wholeness of your heart held in gentle hands. If only for a moment.

* * *

You don’t realize you’ve been dawdling in front of the Twi’lek’s stall until she’s waving a hand in your face. You stutter an apology, pass her a few credits in exchange for a six-ounce jar, and scuttle off into the crowd. You fidget the whole ride back, tapping the glass jar and tracing the lid with your thumb. It’s still early, barely noon, but you’ll have to move quickly.

You share a small kitchen with the other Knights on your floor. It’s rarely used these days; the others are always off with the war, or too exhausted to cook for themselves. It’s lonely, to be sure, but at least you’re free to make as much of a mess as you need, and mutter as loudly as you want, without judgment.

Good thing, too—you’ve never actually made jjobora before. But you do have the instructions and you can read; you can even boil a pot of water without setting the Temple on fire. So you pull up the recipe on your datapad, turn on the stove, and get to work. 

Your fingers find solace in the rhythmic chopping, measuring, and stirring. It’s muscle memory; it’s meditation—or maybe you’re just in denial. You forget your doubts; the steps are right in front of you. You forget your anger; who has done you wrong? And—for the moment—you almost forget Obi-Wan.

Almost.

He will forever lurk in your mind, in your very signature. You’ve accepted that. But for now the hot steam drifting into your face takes you away from the warmth of his hands. The pungent jjuda overpowers the lingering traces of his favorite tea. You continue cooking as if it won’t rush back and overwhelm you perhaps the second you next see him. And, assuming you come up with something edible, that moment’s coming soon. 

The sun has dipped fully below the horizon, casting long shadows on your stove, when you stir in the final seasonings and pour the batch into your thermos. It’s well past your usual dinner time. You pour the batch into your thermos and make a mental note to get it back from him at some point. You’d die for Obi-Wan without hesitation—and live for him, too—but he’s damn sure not getting your kitchenware.

You get the kitchen looking presentable again (enough, at least, not to raise eyebrows), don your cloak, and begin the short walk to Obi-Wan’s quarters.

It’s short, but lonely. Though you hear faint voices far off, the hallway is empty. Dark, too. You rely on your legs alone to get you there; your resolve doesn’t seem up for the task. So you focus on the shadows on the wall, the immense weight of the thermos in your arms, the cold night air as it enters your lungs, until you’re dawdling in front of his door. 

It looms much more menacing than it should for such a thin sheet of metal—meters, even miles thick rather than inches. You set the pot down and raise your fist to knock, only for it to fall again. Maker, why is this so hard? You try—and fail—again before gritting your teeth, steeling your nerves, and rapping against the doorframe. It echoes down the deserted hallway.

Your heart sinks straight to the floor as the stillness engulfs you whole. He’s not coming.

Why won’t you let me in? you think desperately. No, no; this won’t do—you’re not entitled to his time and his presence, least of all an insight into his soul, however brief. He has no obligation to let you in, and you had no right to expect otherwise. 

It’s better this way, you think to yourself. He was so exhausted, so empty this morning. He needs to rest. You swallow a frustrated sigh and shake your head. Nothing to do now but leave the way you came. Your energy withdraws, too; you pull it in like a cloak and wrap your arms around your chest. If only you could compress yourself to nothingness. Without the pot against you, you shiver. 

The gardens are always warm, you think halfheartedly. Maybe you can meditate there before you lock yourself in your quarters, burrow under your blankets, and try your best to forget the day.

There’s a soft swoosh behind you, followed by your name. Not a title. Not an endearment. Your name.

Obi-Wan’s standing in the doorway, pot in hand, when you turn around. You try to evaluate his face—passive, perhaps expectant, with only the hint of a question in his voice. For a moment, you’re tempted to quietly excuse yourself and go meditate anyway, rather than risk whatever’s going through his head.

But he’s opened the door. And no matter how well he’s hidden from you, you refuse to hide from him.

You approach him slowly, deliberately, as if you’ll startle him with a single misstep. “I’m sure you’ve already eaten, but it should keep for another week if you refrigerate it.”

He can dismiss you, if he wants. Confirm that, yes, he has eaten, thank you politely, and let you part as… friends. Yes, friends. 

Obi-Wan squints at the steam-fogged lid. A smile pulls at his lips. “Is this jjobora?”

“Something like it,” you nod. “I had to make some substitutions, but it should taste more or less the same. At least, I hope it does.”

He grins. Briefly you think you glimpse a man from before the war, looking down at you as if through a wall of water. “I’m sure it’s delicious, and certainly better than ration bars… Why don’t you come in? We haven’t eaten together in months.”

You try to keep your face calm, but it’s hard when your lungs swell with fresh, clean air. 

Obi-Wan steps aside to let you in. The door closes behind you. “Don’t mind the mess,” he calls from the kitchen. “It’s been longer than I’d like to admit since I tidied it…”

What mess? An unmade bed? Armor on the chair? His “mess” is your standard. No, what strikes you more is just how dark it is. Usually when you drop by, he’s lit a scented candle or two and the window stands wide open, letting the evening traffic paint the walls with color. Tonight the window is closed. The only light comes from the decades-old lamp on the decades-old workbench (although he doesn’t seem to have been working on anything new). His quarters are quite a bit larger than yours, but right now they feel hardly bigger than a supply closet. There’s a deep dent in the scattered blankets on his bed. You can’t help but wonder how long he’d sat there, motionless, before you’d knocked on his door.

Obi-Wan pokes his head around the corner. “Ledge?”

“Ledge,” you agree. You hear him ladle out two bowls of soup as you open the window. The speeders outside provide a welcome change to the silence. You sling a leg over the windowsill and freeze. 

There’s a tiny pot in the corner. The stem and leaves droop over the edge; the flowers lay wilted in the dry soil. The plant is almost unrecognizable, but you don’t mistake the tiny, circular petals. Alderaanian starflower. 

He hasn’t had it long; you’re sure it wasn’t here the last time you visited. Given that it’s not completely dead, he must have watered it at least two or three times, but not recently. He must have forgotten.

Before you can ask, he rounds the corner with a steaming bowl in each hand and a grimace on his face. “Rather hot, isn’t it?” 

You have to bite back a laugh. “Here—”

You lift both bowls out of his hands and push them out the window with the Force, guiding them towards the ledge. Your ledge, you and Obi-Wan called it. It was almost exactly halfway between your quarters and his, only accessible through one of your windows, just wide and long enough for two people to fit semi-comfortably. 

You and he had spent dozens of hours there. A shared refuge. His quarters, your quarters, your ledge—a triad of energy flowing between the two of you like water falling from the sky to the stream to the sea. Joking, celebrating, comforting.

Obi-Wan nods at you to leave first. You sneak the flower pot close to your chest and jump; he follows close behind. You sit carefully so as not to bump the bowls of soup; your knees end up nearly touching. 

“Cheers.” He raises his spoon and touches it to yours before tasting it. A few seconds pass; you hold your breath. But soon enough a pensive smile spreads over his face, and he meets your anxious gaze. 

“Well, my dear, somehow you’ve done it.”

“Good?”

“Just right.”

Your cheeks burn. You avert your gaze as you taste it yourself. Not quite the same as Jida’s, but satisfying in its own way. 

Even so, you find you’re not terribly hungry. Nerves, exhaustion, anticipation—all vying for center-stage in your chest. After just a few spoonfuls you have to set it aside. Obi-Wan, though, eats like a man starved. Part of you swells with pride, but it can’t drown out the nagging concern.

You decide to distract yourself with the poor little starflower, pulling it into your lap, gently poking the crispy leaves. “Is this new?”

“Oh… yes.” Obi-Wan glances between you and the pot sheepishly. “Not new enough, I suppose. I’d meant to throw it out today, but never got around to it.”

“Throw it out?” You frown. “Why?”

“Dead plants don’t exactly make for a hospitable welcome.”

“It’s not dead; it’s just… distressed and a little upset with you.” You pull out your canteen and pour it out over the soil. There’s just enough left to moisten it as a thin tendril of your energy invades the roots, invigorating it from the inside out. It’s nearly a minute before it’s looking like a living thing again—an underwatered, overshaded thing at that. But at least the leaves are green again, and the petals are recognizably blue atop an upright stem. With a little more regular attention, they’ll be flourishing in no time.

“Some people think starflowers are high maintenance,” you say quietly, “but really they’re just particular. They take well to a gentle nudge in the right direction—if you know how. They’re one of my favorites, for that reason. Beautiful, too.”

“Yes, beautiful.” Obi-Wan pauses. “Perhaps I ought to have called you earlier.”

Yes, perhaps. You force a small smile. It’s fake. You know it; he knows it. So you let it fade from your face. 

“What happened, Obi-Wan?”

He sighs, setting his empty bowl aside, and strokes his beard. “It was a long week, longer than usual. And you know the particular brand of chaos that Anakin and Ahsoka bring to missions.”

“It’s good for you,” you laugh softly. “There’s another pause. “But you know that’s not what I meant.”

He leans back against the wall. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

You wait another beat for him to continue. Stars, you wish he’d say something. Open up to you. Reject you. Or even just stand, take your plates, and bid you goodnight. But he doesn’t and he won’t, and your insides tighten at the realization.

You hug your knees to your chest and run your nails lightly over your shins. “I could sense it, you know. Days before you got here. Like it was my own.”

You pause and look at him. His eyes are fixed on you, but impossible to read. “I don’t want you to tell me if you don’t want to. I just… anything you need, anything you want, it’ll be done. Whether that’s talking it out or—or Stewjoni food five nights a week or getting Anakin into trouble with Master Windu again—anything.”

You draw a small smile out of him at that. 

“I received a—a personal transmission.”

“From Mandalore?”

He nods. “From the Duchess Satine.”

Blast. You know where this is heading before he even finishes her name. Your breath hitches as the vague, dreadful pieces begin to fall into place.

“She requested assistance—my assistance, specifically. Mandalore had fallen; she’d been betrayed. I thought it was the Death Watch, again.” He looks away, pointedly avoiding eye contact. “But instead I found Maul, and the other one. They… they…”

He covers his face with one of his hands; the sudden shift alarms you. You wait a few moments before resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. He’s shaking. Not crying—not yet—but it brings tears to your eyes anyway. You squeeze, trying to ground the both of you. 

It’s over a minute before he stops trembling and shows his face again. “It was a ruse, all of it. The coup, the transmission—just to get me to Mandalore, to exact their revenge by… by making me suffer. Had I stayed behind, they might have spared her.”

Stayed behind? You’ve never known Obi-Wan to stay behind for anything. “Possibly. But it does seem a bit… unreasonable to blame yourself for trying to do the right thing.”

“The right thing?” He repeats hoarsely. “I made that decision, I myself, without the Council’s approval, without meditating, even. Otherwise I might have seen through their smokescreen, and… and she might have been saved, had I not been so blind.”

You pause. “Blind?” You ask softly. “Is that what you think of yourself?”

“Blindness is the price of attachment,” he says with a wry smile.

“Sure.” You breathe deeply. Saying, “You did everything you could” is just a platitude, you know that. But it echoes through your skull.

“You don’t make decisions lightly, Obi-Wan. You never do anything halfway. Sometimes you can do everything right, and things still go wrong. That doesn’t make it your fault. You can’t save everyone.”

As you speak he seems to relax, at least marginally, but somewhere in the end something goes wrong. He tenses again. “No, I suppose not.” There’s a few more moments of silence that, Maker be damned, you refuse to break. 

“I’m by no means a stranger to… to this kind of loss, young one. I was no more attached to Satine than I was to Qui-Gon, for example—in a vastly different respect, of course. But this is so much worse, somehow.” His breath shudders.

“Worse?”

“These two weeks… have been living hell. Oversleeping. Not sleeping enough. I even forgot our strategy in the middle of battle; I was quite the menace to my men. Had Anakin and Ahsoka not been there, I’m not sure what would have happened to us. There was nothing of the sort when Qui-Gon died. And I don’t know why. Admittedly, it does seem rather unfair to him, although the whole notion is absurd.”

“You began training Anakin,” you say tentatively. “You had a job to do.”

He nods. “One of the most important of a Jedi’s responsibilities,” you continue. “… Did you let yourself feel it then?”

“What do you mean?”

“That was your Master. Twelve years; practically your father. Did you let yourself feel the grief as it came, in all its intensity, or did you immediately devote yourself to Anakin every minute of the day?” You feel like you’re navigating an asteroid field, and your flying’s a bit rusty. But there’s nothing to do now but press on.

“It was Qui-Gon’s last wish,” Obi-Wan says automatically. “He’s the Chosen One—Qui-Gon believed; he was determined…”

“That’s true.” Press on. “But that’s not what I asked.”

He doesn’t respond. He’s fighting it, you think. More than that, though, you know his answer. And you know he does, too.

“Is it… at least possible that some of this is you—something in you trying to mourn two people at once? Two people from the same part of your life, before Anakin, before the war, who met the same fate at the same hands?”

“Possible, possible…” He rubs his forehead and sighs. “But Qui-Gon—that happened almost fifteen years ago.”

“Grief comes when it comes,” you say with a sad shrug. “Particularly after fifteen years of—of not letting yourself rest. It’s natural.”

He nods, slowly. You can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. “Natural, yes. But grief isn’t the Jedi way.”

The exasperation that flashes through you takes you by surprise; you can practically hear Master Yoda. But the initial flash fades, leaving you heartbroken at the resignation in his voice. 

“Maybe, but that’s… not exactly the point.”

His eyes flash. Maker, you hate the way a single look from him can shatter your resolve; you almost backtrack. But you can’t. The words have already been spoken. 

“Your dedication to the Order’s teachings is admiral; it’s a dedication I’m still learning. But grief doesn’t care whether or not you think it’s philosophically acceptable. You can deny it and delay it, even for fifteen years, but eventually it demands to be felt.”

You give him a minute to respond, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even look at you. His eyes have glazed over the mesmerizing lights; you can almost sense him locking himself away. Please. Please, not again.

“Two years into my diplomacy rounds, I went to Alderaan. Easy, administrative tasks; I wasn’t supposed to be there for more than a week. Instead I ended up bedridden for over a month.”

Obi-Wan starts and frowns at you. Of all the travel tales you’d told him over the years, you’d never shared this.

“Senator Organa even called his personal physician for me. But—medically—there was nothing wrong with me. Nothing to do but sleep it out, talk it out, cry it out. There were some broken dishes involved.” You grimace at the memory.

“Constant headaches. Constant exhaustion, or constant insomnia. Forgetfulness. Incompetence. Unkindness. It’s a disease of the mind—of the heart. When the grief comes, you have to let yourself feel it.”

“Grief for whom?” He chokes out. 

How honest can you be? “You.”

Alarm flickers over his face. Go back. Go back. “For the life I’d lived,” you hastily correct. “I went from…”

From seeing you, laughing with you, fighting with you and for you everyday, so in love, so afraid, yet content for the moment just to be at your side—to a lonely life of transience, a ghost haunting an empty ship, chasing a specter of wholeness.

“… From a familiar life as a Padawan to the wide open galaxy,” you settle. “I was with you for years, after all. But I wouldn’t acknowledge it. I wouldn’t stop to feel it. There was work to do, places to go, a—a reputation to establish. When it finally catches up to you…”

You have to bite your cheek to keep the shiver threatening to rack you at bay. Your fingernails dig into your knees hard enough to draw blood as you pull them in tighter to your chest. The tears in your eyes are stubborn, despite your efforts to blink them away. You’d rather Obi-Wan not see them. But you look at him, anyway. You have to.

“Please don’t do what I did,” you whisper brokenly. “Please take care of yourself. Please, I can’t… I don’t want to watch you… Something so much worse, so much more… permanent…”

You’re rambling now, as if stringing more and more fractured phrases together will actually communicate the dread that fills you. But suddenly warmth blooms over your fingers, gently easing them out of their vice grip on your knees. Your hands yield to Obi-Wan’s at once, and for just a moment, your mind goes blank.

But then you feel his hands shaking, and you see the wetness in his eyes.

Your tears finally spill over as you take his hands tightly. You’re pulling each other closer, closer until your shoulders touch; you can’t tell where his trembling ends and yours begins. There’s something deeply otherworldly about this, but healing, too. Huddled together like your lives depend on it, foreheads nearly touching, crying freely before the other—not as two, but as one sitting in front of a mirror—is like sinking into a tank of undiluted bacta. Suffocating. Gut-wrenching. Agonizing in the way healing always is, as you feel the sinews in your heart knit themselves together again. 

Eventually your muscles still. Your tears dry. But still, you hold to each other as long minutes pass. Surely he’ll let go. Surely he’ll stand, send your bowls back to the window, and decide to turn in. Surely the moment is coming—coming soon.

But it doesn’t. He doesn’t. And your heart nearly stops at the realization that he won’t.

His grip on your hands relaxes as his breaths deepen. He’s not asleep—not yet, anyway—but he’s slipping, and you’re slipping, too. As much as you’d love to just drift off as you are, you’re just awake enough to know better. 

You squeeze his hands. “Obi-Wan…”

He nods against your shoulder. “I know.”

It’s silent as you stand, silent as you leap, silent as you let go, but for the faint horns and wind in your ears. 

“Let me,” you say quietly. “Go to sleep. I’ll clean up.”

But he doesn’t, of course. He’s sitting on his bed, watching you intently as you return.

“I have two weeks of available meditative leave. I’ll address the Council about it tomorrow.”

You nod and sit a few inches away from him. It’s not much time, but it’s something. Perhaps enough to lift the weight, to heal the rift. If only a little. 

“And perhaps we’ll have time for the rest of that jjobora, too.” 

A smile breaks over your face. It only widens when you see his—faint, tired, sad, but real. You cover his hand with yours and reach up to brush away the soot still on his cheek. 

“Perhaps,” you murmur. “But get some sleep first.”

He leans back, and gently pulls you down with him with a yawn. “You, too, dear one,” he mumbles. “We both should rest well.”

You hum, too exhausted to protest. Not that you mind. For the first time in days, the Force surrounding you feels balanced. You pull his hand to your lips and press a light kiss to his knuckles as you rest your head against his shoulder. His hand wraps around yours where it rests on his heart. 

The moment is coming when you’ll pull apart, when you’ll go back to your teaching and Obi-Wan to his soldiering. But this—this is something. A something more than something. You’re warm. You’re whole. Obi-Wan is home, and—for the moment—so are you.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is adapted from a longer work with an OC rather than a Reader; contextually, the Reader did not meet Obi-Wan until their late teens. I do not condone grooming in any way, shape, or form and I hope that the context makes that clearer.


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